It was a cloudy Sunday morning in early February. My family had gathered earlier that weekend for a difficult goodbye, and now most had disappeared to their various activities, taking their sadness along with them. In the living room, only three of us remained: My five-year-old grandchild Zoe, me, and my beloved dog Piper, who was sitting at my feet as close to me as possible, as usual. Thankfully, she was breathing easy, the hacking cough of the past few days momentarily silenced. I recognized a teachable moment. “Zoe,” I said, “did your mom and dad tell you about Piper?”